


Karyuukai

by mizael



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Modern Era Geishas, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-04
Updated: 2014-12-25
Packaged: 2018-02-19 19:12:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2399660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mizael/pseuds/mizael
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is said that geisha inhabit a separate reality called the karyuukai, "the flower and willow world." Courtesans are colorful "flowers," while geisha are the "willows" because of their subtlety, strength, and grace. </p><p>Kuroko Tetsuya, at age 18, decides to enter that world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Flowers

**Author's Note:**

> i cried really hard when i found out that one of my favorite utaites of all time, kanseru, did [a cover of yoshiwara lament](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=--nsBZtN_JI), which is what inspired this in the first place
> 
> this was supposed to be a light fic about courtesan kuroko and customers kise and akashi and an excuse for me to practice using the em dash but then things got so quickly out of hand that neither of those things are even true anymore. cries gently. i did a lot of research on geishas but i still dont really understand much so i basically just tried to incorporate things i've read and things i've seen in other anime to write something about geishas.
> 
> akashi doesn't even appear until the next chapter i'm so sorry

 

At the age of eighteen, Kuroko Tetsuya, fresh out of high school with fading dreams of becoming a teacher, walks into a geisha house and says with firm clarity—”Please accept me as a _maiko_.” The few seconds the women in the house need to collect themselves pass by slowly, before they quickly descend upon him like vultures, picking and prodding at his sharp juts and calloused hands, his firm body and male figure— _his long lashes and pale skin_ —and do their best to chase him out. Unperturbed, Tetsuya only looks at them with determined eyes, a field of sharp edges and harsh blizzards that refuse to subside, encasing all in its strong, firm, yet delicate beauty. He does not yield like they wish.

The next day, he returns with renewed vigor, eyes lined with wings and face set in powder. The women observe him like a shop item on display, ghosting over his curved lines and accentuated lower lashes, his peeking collarbone and slim shoulders (his rosy cheeks and soft skin). But they find fault in his biceps: too toned, too bony, too obvious. Again, Tetsuya only looks at them tenaciously, promising without words that he would come again.

They do not see him for a month. When he returns—slimmer, smaller, _softer_ —they glance at him with weary eyes, cup his face with shaking hands, caress it with calloused fingers, and ask why. Why, why, why, they ask. You have a future and a life, a career and a determination that moves so strongly that even we are hesitant to stop it. You can see the world from your perch and move to strike when you want. You have hope and fire and unmoving stone, so— _why_.

He looks at them again, but the blizzard has stopped. They realize then that the image they saw earlier was an illusion, a false resistance that weakened their expectations, and now instead they see in him the memories of a child that became an adult too soon. They see in him the glimmer of hope and promise when he looks at them—the very same glimmer that fades when he looks away. Through their concerned irises, he looks at them with soft eyes, and merely smiles.

_Because I have no where else to go._

* * *

He spends three years in training, far from perfect as a male, but he does not complain. They beat into him the proper way to sit, to speak, to walk, and to carry himself. They uncallous his hands with sake bottles but callous his fingers with shamisen strings, they tone his biceps with calligraphy and show off his edges with dance; they do everything to highlight the very aspects of him that they denied. Yet they cover his sharp lines with makeup, drape layers upon layers of kimono on him to hide his angled body, and teach him to move so quietly, so gracefully, that from a distance he looks the very image of a blooming flower.

Kuroko is fine, they say, it can be your stage name. Tetsuya only shows his amusement at the irony when he is alone; he is the very image of powdered white snow, wearing light blue kimono that depict images of vast blue skies and snowshoe hares, with skin as pale as moonlight and eyes that glitter like ice. Kuroko, a _black_ child, how very fitting.

He is assigned an _onii-san_ (“to teach you intimately in ways we cannot”) a month into his training named Kise Ryouta, who shines as brightly as his name suggests. It is then that Tetsuya learns that there are other men who work as _maiko_ or _geisha_ , but they are too few to make a ripple. Only two in total work at the house, excluding Tetsuya himself.

Kise—call me _Ryouta_ —is a second sun. He smiles so warmly and shines so brightly that Tetsuya can only watch in awe as he works, drawing the world’s light to his kimono as he dances, covered with images of rising phoenixes and flying canaries, singing songs that are as beautiful as the nightingales’. He moves in a way that brings out all his sharp lines and edges, too different from the way Tetsuya moves, because Kise is so blatantly male while Tetsuya can only imitate woman like a bushveld lizard to a spitting beetle.

Kise, of all the brightness he possesses, belays into his blackness a light that snuffs out all traces of his shadow, leaving him bare, exposed, but not vulnerable.

“Why,” Tetsuya asks one day as Kise brushes through his short hair, deft fingers working through soft tresses too short to decorate with pins, but long enough to stick flowers into.

“Why what?” Kise momentarily stops in confusion, comb still as he focuses his golden eyes on the back of Tetsuya’s head. “You’ll have to be more specific, Kurokocchi.”

“Why do you not let me shadow you?” Tetsuya takes this as his cue to turn around, slowly, still on his knees, like he was taught. He meets Kise’s gaze with firm intent, and exhales softly. “Why do you insist on shoving the light on me? I do much better when I support you.”

Kise’s eyes soften then, and he places the comb back into the makeup box with a soft _clack_. In two powerful strides he is knee-to-knee with Tetsuya, their bodies only a few feet apart. Kise holds out his hands, large yet soft, and Tetsuya gently places his, small yet strong, on the other’s open palms. He wraps his fingers around Tetsuya’s, perfectly manicured nails pressing but not digging into his skin.

“Because,” he starts without hesitation, although pauses as if trying to find the right words to say. “Because you are precious. Because you hold so much light in yourself that you suppress for the good of everyone else, because I see that the world expects _Kuroko_ to be black like his name when they cannot see the white in his eyes.”

“Kise-kun,”

“ _Ryouta_ ,” Kise corrects firmly with a soft smile. He drops Tetsuya’s hands and moves to cup his face with his hands, running fingers longer than Tetsuya’s down his cheek. Something in Kise’s eyes spark, as if the very notion of touching and talking to Tetsuya made him happy. “Because you are worth so much more to me than just a shadow. I do not want you to support me, I want you to shine _with_ me.”

Kise smiles at Tetsuya with the brilliance of all the stars in the sky: too bright to be comprehensible by human eyes, but dim enough to observe without blinding. And Tetsuya does not understand why (why, why, _why_ ) Kise looks at him with so much longing and affection buried beneath his sun-kissed orbs that pour over when they see him. The slender fingers that caress his cheeks could have caressed thousands of lovers, the fire in his eyes could have burned millions of admirers, yet the softness of his touch was reserved only for him. For Tetsuya.

“Kurokocchi, when I first met you, I disliked you,” Kise’s voice breaks Tetsuya out of his thoughts. “I didn’t think you were suitable for the job, that your dances were weak, and your body even weaker. I complained about having you as my _otouto_. I was fully out to crush you and get you to leave.”

“But you resisted me. You continued on despite my attempts to sabotage you, to pit you against the other maiko in training, to break you,” Kise stops then to take a shaky breath, his words drip with regret and sorrow and he cannot meet Tetsuya’s gaze. It takes him a full minute to compose himself, and even then he does not lift his head back up. “At the annual banquet hosted by one of my clients, you went on stage. I fully expected you to fail; I set you up on that stage hoping that you would. But then you started _dancing_.”

“Kise-kun,” Tetsuya removes Kise’s hands from his face, and instead reaches up to cup the other’s instead. He runs his small fingers against Kise’s cheek, wiping away the first few tears that drop from his eyes as his shoulders shake. “Kise-kun, it’s alright.”

“I cried, Kurokocchi,” he continues on with a hiccup, and Tetsuya only continues to push away the streaks of water that pour from his sun. “I cried when I saw you dance. Despite how much I hated you and refused to help you, you danced so beautifully. You were like moving water on that stage—fluid, graceful, clear. And then when you got off that stage you _thanked_ me, fully knowing that I set you up to fail, and you didn’t hate me.”

“I still don’t hate you now.”

“I know, _I know_ ,” Kise hiccups again, and the tears still will not stop streaming from his face. “You are too kind to me, Kurokocchi. I could never repent for what I did.”

“I’ve long since forgiven you,” Tetsuya reassures softly, and leans up to kiss away the last few tears that fall. “So don’t cry anymore.”

“Kurokocchi, I love you,” Kise says in a small voice. “I love you, I love you, I love—”

“I know,” he injects quickly, too afraid to let him continue. Tetsuya does not know what he would do if Kise went on; the soft thumping of his heart is pounding too loudly in his ears. He feels his cheeks flush from the affection Kise laces in his voice like fine poison—poison that tempts Tetsuya too much. Has he ever heard such sweet words directed at him and only him?

(Briefly, there flashes a patch of dark blue in his vision, of hot summer afternoons with a boy that smiled wide though his shirt was drenched in sweat, of catching crayfish in a river with sun-kissed hands, and the lovely ring of a rose coloured girl’s voice who blended with the boy’s— _Tetsu-kun, Tetsu-kun_.

He squashes it before he can see the wide smile that turned into a displeased frown, easy eyes that turned into harsh rocks, soft hands that turned into calloused fists, and the wide, cold back of a man who no longer turned and waited for Tetsuya.

 ~~ _Who no longer loved him._~~ )

“Kurokocchi…”

“Thank you, Ryouta,” Tetsuya says finally, and looks up at the sunlike eyes that threaten to blind him with its brightness. But while he is the sun, Tetsuya is the sky, and they cannot exist without the other. “Thank you.”

Tetsuya leans up to push his lips against Ryouta’s, who tangles his hands in Tetsuya’s blue locks, mussing up hair that he combed only moments ago. The force of Ryouta’s want topples both of them to the floor, but they do not part, because Ryouta’s tongue finds Tetsuya’s in their sweet embrace, and Tetsuya can only tug weakly at Ryouta’s kimono as he moans.

They part only when they both cannot hold their breath any longer, and Ryouta can taste Tetsuya’s lip gloss on his own tongue, and Tetsuya looks up at him with hazy eyes through soft blue lashes that flutter closed briefly as he regains his breath. Ryouta attacks without a second thought, locking their lips in another passionate kiss that makes Tetsuya dig his nails into Ryouta’s arms, and causes Ryouta to moan into his mouth. He parts quicker this time, only to trail kisses and tongue down Tetsuya’s jaw and neck, littering it with hickies that he will have to cover with makeup later.

When he surfaces again, Tetsuya is the image of debauchery, hands spread out around his head, lips glossy with Ryouta’s saliva rather than his cosmetics, cheeks flushed _just so_ to contrast his pale skin, where beads of sweat begin to form. And most of all, Tetsuya looks at Ryouta with half-lidded blue eyes glazed over in lust, small lips parted _just slightly_ —beckoning him back to soil the rest of his body.

And Ryouta is quick to please.

* * *

When morning comes in all her glory, Tetsuya is the first to wake. He blinks wearily at the light shining through the shoji doors, illuminating his tired face and basking Ryouta’s in shadow. The blond has yet to wake, and when Tetsuya moves to roll out of the futon, Ryouta reaches out to pull him back in. He tumbles into Ryouta’s waiting arms, which encircle him against his chest, and Tetsuya can only smile at the gentle possessiveness of the still sleeping blond. He has clients later, he knows, and the thought of Ryouta’s smile and burning gaze being directed at someone else makes a lump in his throat. Tetsuya swallows shakily, and reaches out to brush his fingertips against Ryouta’s cheeks, who only nuzzles against him in his sleep.

Tetsuya presses his back to Ryouta’s chest more firmly then, curling in just right to fit snugly across all of his lines and curves. He brings his hands to hold the ones circled around his shoulders, and buries his face into the smooth skin only a few shades darker than his own. Ryouta smells faintly of marigolds and sunflowers, of warm spring days and cool spring nights. He inhales his scent like a drug until he is sure he can taste flowers on his tongue: strong, bitter, and rough.

If anyone were to find them now—bare shoulders peeking over the edge of the blanket, Ryouta’s face buried in Tetsuya’s hair, scattered kimonos and obi on the floor—he is sure they would both be punished. But Tetsuya will not let go of the warmth around his body, because Ryouta will not, because he has never felt such a desperate and tight embrace that he knows is for him only.

“Thank you, Ryouta,” he says again as his eyelids flutter closed to take in a few more minutes of peace like this.

_Thank you for loving me when I cannot._

* * *

The spring of his debut as a _geisha_ is too cold.

They decide, in the lingering winter weather, to dress him in their finest creation for his finest hour, weaved and sewn from the very day he entered the house. Three years of embroidery is draped on his body as they forsake his three layered kimono for a five layered _furisode_. The garment is dyed in a gradient of powder blue that fades to light purple, and decorated at intervals with chrysanthemums—the same flower they affix to his hair.

The sun rises on his sleeve and showers its rays upon the snow piled at the hem of his furisode, and it is there that white and pink chrysanthemums rise from the snow like blazing phoenixes (a tribute to Ryouta, he is sure). His collar, once red to show his inferiority, has turned white to match his light furisode. He raises his arms as they tie a large gold obi around his waist, covered in soft ivory patterns that swirl and dance across the fabric, and then attach the large tateya musubi bow to his back. The bow takes up more than half of his backside, and the image of his broad shoulders and sharp lines disappear in contrast. Coupled with the long sleeves of his furisode that drag along the ground when he walks, they dwarf his figure and make him look smaller than he already is.

He does not need the white mask that most geisha wear. His skin is pale enough as it is, and as a man, he does not need to look the part of a porcelain doll (even if he already does). They only apply light foundation to his face, line his eyes with black, and then line over that with red. They make exaggerated flourishes with the red, and paint his eyes with rounded wings instead of the sharp black that he is used to. As a last touch, they smudge a tiny bit of red over his lips to be covered by gloss, and when he rubs his lips together like they ask, he is the very shimmering idea of beauty.

They leave him then, scurrying off to make the rest of the preparations for his debut, and Tetsuya sits alone in the room, observing his own reflection in the mirror across from him. They put fake lashes over his already long ones, and the heaviness of his eyelids causes him to blink several times. His vision is obscured partly by them, but that’s fine, since a geisha is not supposed to look up unless told to.

The shoji doors open again, except this time it’s Ryouta, who descends upon Tetsuya in a frenzy of sleeves and hands, and moves to touch his face gently, as if Tetsuya would break if he pressed any harder.

“You’re beautiful, Kurokocchi,” Ryouta breathes in wonder, golden eyes scanning every square inch of him until Tetsuya flushes from the attention and averts his eyes.

“Please stop staring; it’s very unnerving,” Tetsuya says softly.

“Always so mean,” Ryouta pouts in response, but it disappears as soon as it came, because Ryouta is too happy to truly be affected by his words. He leans down to press his forehead against Tetsuya’s, and they stay like that for a while until their breaths become synced. “Kurokocchi…”

“Yes, Ryouta?”

A pause. Ryouta shifts his eyes and looks at the floor, studying minute details of the tatami mat below them as if they were the most interesting thing in the world. Tetsuya only smiles—a slight upturn of his lips, too small to notice otherwise—at Ryouta’s sudden shyness.

“After today’s banquet, you’ll no longer be my _otouto_ ,” Ryouta starts with halting lightness. A beat, and then: ”So after that banquet, will you—will you be my _anata_?”

Tetsuya’s breath catches in his throat, and the slight widening of his eyes is the only signal Ryouta gets that lets him know Tetsuya heard the meaning behind his words. His otherwise blank face does not change, but Ryouta has grown used to reading Tetsuya in the three years they have been together. Even the slightest twitch of his eyebrow is enough to let him know that something is the matter.

“We can’t get married, Kise Ryouta.”

“I know,” Ryouta says a little too quickly. In a show of unusual bashfulness, he retracts his hand away from Tetsuya’s cheeks and fidgets with them in his lap. The faint dusting of red on his cheeks is definitely not from his makeup, Tetsuya observes. “I just… I want to be with you, Kurokocchi! I want to live in the same house as you, be part of your family, spend afternoons looking at the sky with you with no care in the world. I’ll go to work for a job I love, and so will you, and we’d come back to each other every day, and—”

“—I know,” Tetsuya interrupts with a faint smile. Ryouta looks relieved at the interruption and fixes hopeful gold on his sparkling blue. “I know, Ryouta.”

“So you’ll marry me?” Ryouta’s hands are cupping his face again, foreheads pressed against each other, the scent of Ryouta’s sweet breath on his nose.

Tetsuya leans up and kisses Ryouta on the lips, and their shared embrace does not reek of inexperience and hurried want this time. When they part, a trail of saliva connects them, and Tetsuya’s lips are again aglow with something that is not his cosmetic.

“Give me time,” he says softly, keeping his gaze with Ryouta’s. He looks like a hopeful puppy then, imaginary tail thumping against the mats as he hears Tetsuya’s answer. “Perhaps after the banquet.”

“I’ll wait for you, Kurokocchi,” Ryouta responds immediately, and leans down to plant another kiss on Tetsuya’s lips. “I’ll wait as long as you need. I’ll be here, always, for you. Just for you.”

“I know,” Tetsuya smiles as Ryouta withdraws his hands. They both know then—it’s time for Tetsuya’s debut to begin, for his _erikae_ from _maiko_ to _geisha_. “We should go.”

“Yes, we should,” Ryouta says almost breathlessly.

They get on their feet, and Ryouta helps Tetsuya up in his furisode so that the smaller male would not trip on his overly long sleeves. Tetsuya grumbles a little about how heavy his outfit is in contrast to Ryouta’s short sleeved tomesode, but the blond only chuckles and slides open the shoji doors to let Tetsuya trail past. Once outside, Ryouta takes the lead, and they walk in companionable silence to the dining hall.


	2. The Willows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i foolishly thought i could finish this thing in two chapters (i couldn't)  
> so yay for an extra chapter
> 
> none of this is beta'd i'm sorry

The first few months of Tetsuya’s new position go by so quickly that Tetsuya is surprised to wake up one day and find that it’s already winter again. The December chill nips at his skin like a cat to an owner long gone—playful and familiar, but demanding above all else. Tetsuya pulls his yukata a little tighter around him to combat the cold, but his bed is still set for cool autumn wind and not biting winter frost. His blankets are too thin to provide any sort of comfort against the weather, but at least Tetsuya had the foresight to request not one, but two blankets for the course of autumn. He is better than he could be, but that really doesn’t say much at all. He is still cold and shivering, and the assistants that help him put on his daily wear won’t be here until much later.

When someone finally _does_ come in to check on him, he is a jumbled mess of blankets and pillows, like a winter cocoon that would bloom butterflies in the spring. His usual bed hair is ten times worse than usual, and Ryouta, for the life of him, won’t let Tetsuya out of his sight. Which would have been fine and dandy if Ryouta didn’t also accompany him to see his clients, and then Tetsuya wouldn’t feel guilty about those golden eyes observing the way he moved and danced for a man or a woman that wasn’t Ryouta. It makes him falter just a bit, not enough for the client to notice, but enough for Ryouta to only smile sadly and leave with the silent promise of a late night.

It takes another day for the workers in the house to switch out the soft summer futons with the thicker winter ones, and Tetsuya freezes for one more night, but they make haste on his wardrobe as soon as the weather changes, and he is dressed in seven layers of furisode instead of five the moment he wakes. They give him an extra pelt of fur draped over his shoulders, and Tetsuya has half a mind to roll his head back and sleep in position on the white fur—it is too soft.

Winter, of course, brings in more clients than usual, because suddenly half the city wants a refuge in the geisha house, and Tetsuya toils from sun up to sun down plucking shamisen strings and singing until his voice is hoarse. The customers grow a bit more bold with the warm sake and cold weather, and Tetsuya cannot count the amount of times he’s been touched and fondled when he pours their next cup. Ryouta, of course, takes all of this in stride, and Tetsuya’s gut clenches when he sees a client— _not even a regular_ —run his filthy, _filthy_ hands over Ryouta’s own, and Ryouta just smiles and shyly shakes him away, but that only further eggs him on.

Just when Tetsuya thinks he would go mad with the touches (on his skin, his clothes, his body, his hair, his face, and his _Ryouta_ ), the house descends into chaos. But, being a _geisha_ house, it is an organized chaos that takes place in the form of hurried footsteps and quick fingers that sew and embroider faster than usual. It appears as the dining hall and reception area are swept and cleaned three different times on the same day within the span of five hours, as the pantries are restocked and checked religiously, and as the head chef—a giant named Murasakibara Atsushi—is bombarded with women workers that pick and prod at his creations even more so than usual.

“Kuro-chin,” the giant greets Tetsuya as he enters in-between clients. The kitchen smells of fresh bread and sweet pastries, and there are a pile of cupcakes next to Murasakibara as he stands in the center of it all, ladle in hand, taste testing the miso soup for the fifth time that day. Tetsuya only gives him a sympathetic look as he slides the door closed behind him.

“Good morning, Murasakibara-kun,” Tetsuya responds in kind. He glides across the kitchen and takes the space a few paces away from the purple giant, who hands him a mug and a straw not too much after. The porcelain is cold against his already freezing hands, and the contents inside even more so, but Murasakibara doesn’t let go of Tetsuya’s hands even as he accepts the mug, so he is grateful for the giant’s warmth. “Thank you.”

“No problem~,” the giant hums and temporarily disconnects his hands from Tetsuya’s to scoop a portion of the soup into a black and red bowl. The bowl is offered to Tetsuya who only shakes his head in refusal, but Murasakibara has learned that he would still drink it even if he said otherwise. “Kuro-chin should eat more so he won’t be so cold.”

“Just a vanilla shake is fine for me,” Tetsuya says stubbornly. To prove his point, he lifts the straw to his lips and starts sipping his favorite cold beverage in the middle of winter. Murasakibara only pouts and presses his large hands against Tetsuya’s small face. Usually, Tetsuya would be annoyed at the contact, but the harsh winter weather has chilled every part of his body, and so Murasakibara’s warm and giant hands are welcomed earnestly.

They pass moments like that, Murasakibara draping his large frame around Tetsuya and burying his face in the other’s neck like an overgrown child while Tetsuya calmly consumes his homemade milkshake. It only takes a few minutes before the blood returns to Tetsuya’s body, and his cheeks begin to color with warmth again. Murasakibara is a human heater and teddy bear, and Tetsuya is content to let the giant conduct his body heat to him.

“Have you heard?” Murasakibara breaks their silence as he moves away to check on the rest of the food cooking in the kitchen, and Tetsuya holds back a disappointed sigh. He puts his finished mug down, and quietly retrieves a spoon from the cabinet to enjoy the warm miso in place of warm Murasakibara.

“Have I heard what?”

“The house is getting a high profile customer soon,” the giant drawls as he shoves chopsticks full of pickled vegetables into his mouth for another taste test. Deeming it sufficient, he moves to try the next dish he’s prepared. “And by soon, I mean later today. That’s why everyone is so annoying right now. They’re telling me to redo this and that—I just want to crush them.”

“Please don’t crush the workers, Murasakibara-kun,” Tetsuya reprimands lightly. As much as Murasakibara talks about crushing, he never has the drive to carry it out. The giant is a sloth and a glutton to the core, and only something that really ticked him off would awaken his rage. “Who is the high profile customer?”

“It’s Aka-chin.”

“Do you know him?” Tetsuya asks as the striking familiarity with which the giant says the name baffles him.

A hum of approval. “Aka-chin got me the job here.”

“But who is ‘Aka-chin’?”

“Aka-chin is Aka-chin.”

Tetsuya sighs and dips his spoon into the bowl, powder blue eyes watching as the soup drowns his utensil in their watery beige powder. “What is he like, I mean.”

Murasakibara only turns to give him a look of confusion. “Aka-chin is Aka-chin.”

* * *

The chaos only becomes more apparent as the day goes by. Tetsuya is ripped away from his client by the frantic maids, who insist on touching up his makeup before night falls (before ‘Aka-chin’ arrives) and present him with three different furisode sewed and embroidered to his measurements, each more extravagant than the one he wore on his debut day. Tetsuya thinks the fitting can’t get much worse when he is pulled this way and that, constantly pricked by safety pins that are inserted and withdrawn in their haste. Of course, they aren’t satisfied at all with the furisodes they force on him despite Tetsuya’s protests _that they’re fine, perfectly fine, they’re beautiful_.

They don’t listen.

When they finally, _finally_ decide on his clothing, he is already exhausted from the session, arms and neck sore from being held up too long, shoulders drooping from the weight pressed on him. Even then he must hold his head up as they redo his makeup a third time, and emphasize his eyes with not only false upper lashes, but false lower lashes as well. Tetsuya feels that if he smiles or even twitches a part of his face, the layer of makeup on him would crack. He gives thanks to his blank expression and watches as they leave to tend to other matters (probably for the third or fourth time, he thinks dryly).

Tetsuya stands and leaves after he is sure they won’t come back to re-check him again. Workers run around left and right as he walks by, scurrying like frantic rabbits from a predatory hawk, ignoring him as they rush past. The sun has not even begun to set, and they are already kicking out most of the other clients. ‘Aka-chin’ has, from Tetsuya’s observation, rented out the entire house to himself for that night, save for a few who could stay with his permission. As he begins to wonder what sort of man ‘Aka-chin’ is, Ryouta’s voice pierces his thoughts, and he turns.

Tetsuya paces over to the nearest set of shoji doors and slowly slides them open.

“Ow, ow, _ow_!” Ryouta shouts in pain as they pull a safety pin from his waist and quickly brush over it with disinfectant. Tetsuya only smiles to himself as they slip the rest of his tomesode over him as Ryouta complains the entire time. The maids only give him a pitiful look as they place the finishing touches, and scurry out as soon as they notice Tetsuya in the doorway. Ryouta holds his sides with a huff of irritation as the doors slide shut.

It quickly morphs into a beaming smile as soon as Tetsuya strides over and gestures for him to sit. Ryouta obeys like a dog greeting its master, and Tetsuya can almost see the ears and tail peeking out over his blond locks. With another small smile, he pulls the makeup box over and situates himself knee-to-knee with Ryouta.

“Kurokocchi,” Ryouta says immediately and leans down to kiss Tetsuya, but Tetsuya holds a hand out to stop him. “Kurokocchiiiii…!”

“If you kiss me, you’ll ruin my makeup,” Tetsuya says as he opens the box next to them and brings out a brush. Ryouta whines into his hand and Tetsuya only sighs as he leans up to peck the other on the cheek. Ryouta quickly brightens and swoops in for another, but he is denied yet again. “I gave you one already, so behave until I’ve finished your makeup.”

“But Kurokocchi,” Ryouta continues to whine.

“If you don’t stop, I won’t sleep with you tonight,”

That shuts him up faster than Tetsuya can blink.

“That’s a good boy,” Tetsuya reaches up and absently pats Ryouta’s head. Ryouta pouts.

Tetsuya begins to coat the other’s face with a fine layer of foundation and cream. They fall into routine silence as he deftly swirls lines across Ryouta’s eyes and wings across his lashes. Tetsuya does all that Ryouta once did for him, when he was a maiko, and Ryouta yields to his hands like a purring cat as Tetsuya draws his makeup and combs his hair. It is relaxing for them both—Tetsuya, to get rid of the bundle of nerves for the night ahead, and Ryouta, to enjoy the pleasure of Tetsuya’s touch as the stress melts from his shoulders.

“I love you, Kurokocchi,” Ryouta says in a happy sigh, as his eyes flutter closed in contentment. “I love you so much.”

“I know, Ryouta,” Tetsuya responds automatically.

“Yeah, but,” Ryouta opens his eyes again and gazes at Tetsuya sadly, forlornly, almost sorrowfully, and Tetsuya can only stare back in confusion. “Kurokocchi, you never…”

“Ryouta?” he asks softly, afraid of the words on Ryouta’s mind.

“I-It’s nothing.”

Tetsuya doesn’t fail to notice the way Ryouta’s grip tightens on his clothing, but he pretends he did.

* * *

Murasakibara was right: _Aka-chin is Aka-chin_.

There is no other way to describe him.

Aka-chin—or, Akashi Seijuurou, as Tetsuya learns later—is a twister of crimson. The moment he steps into the geisha house, the workers, the maiko, the geiko and the _okaa-san_ all bow their heads as if the Emperor of Japan himself had come to visit. Tetsuya only watches with fear and fascination as the oldest and only heir of the Akashi family makes his way into the house. He almost forgets to bow in his awe, powder blue fixed on crimson red ( so _different_ , so _clashing_ , so very _enchanting_ ) as if the other would disappear if he took his eyes away. Akashi walks with a posture that commands absolute obedience, absolute authority, and absolute respect—absolute, absolute, _absolute_.

 _Akashi Seijuurou is absolute_.

Tetsuya presses his forehead against the floor as Ryouta gives him a small tug, effectively breaking him out of his trance. He hopes that the others did not see his blunder, and most of all, _Akashi_ did not see his blunder, but Tetsuya gives no hints that was in the wrong, as he evens his breathing and lets the tension roll from his shoulders. Through the gaps in his hair, Tetsuya follows well polished leather shoes as Akashi makes his way down the carpet laid out for him. His shoes halt right in front of Tetsuya for a split second, and his breath hitches, thinking that perhaps the heir had caught him with his head unbowed, but in no time at all Akashi has strode on as if he never stopped.

Tetsuya watches as he strides up to the okaa-san located at the end of his carpet, and bows ceremoniously.

“Aida-san,” he greets neutrally. His voice is a wave of silk and water, so soft and fluid, but sturdy and strong, that Tetsuya forgets to breathe for another reason entirely. If he did not think the man before them commanded any sort of authority before, _he did now_. Akashi’s voice is as regal as his aura, and Tetsuya briefly wonders if the Emperor of Japan had _indeed_ come to visit, and not just a businessman named _Ak as_ _hi Seijuurou_. “It has been a while.”

“Akashi-sama,” Aida Riko bows respectfully from her perch; she is the only one allowed to sit on a cushion, elevated higher than everyone else because she is the matriarch of the house. “It is a pleasure to see you again.”

“Likewise,” he responds in kind, and Tetsuya watches as his feet move and turn around to face the line of people bowing from the entrance. If he could see Akashi’s face— _if he could see Akashi’s face_ —he is sure the heir’s eyes would be glinting right now. “Rise. There is no need to bow any longer.”

Slowly, one by one, the residents of the house lift their heads, and Tetsuya strains a little more to accommodate the weight of the hairpins on him. His head tilts back a little too much, and suddenly he’s looking into Akashi’s blood red eyes, and Tetsuya quickly bows his head again to break contact. Akashi’s eyes bare into his soul even as he stares firmly at the floor in front of him—he can still feel his smouldering gaze on his head, his hair, his furisode, his _very being_. Tetsuya suppresses the shiver that threatens to shake his spine with willpower alone.

(Because Akashi is like a silent predator, always watching, never moving, only observing. And that frightens Tetsuya more than a predator that leaps as soon as he is able, because then Akashi knows all the cracks and faults that litter his frame: the same cracks and faults that he’s kept hidden so well from the others. Akashi’s inexplicable aura that both draws in and pushes out makes him shake.

—In fear? In awe? In _understanding_?

Akashi Seijuurou is a heavy presence that devours Tetsuya’s own.)

“Is there someone you wish to dine with, Akashi-sama?” Aida asks politely as Akashi finishes sweeping his gaze through the room. When he makes no move to answer, and no move to turn back around to face her, she steels herself and raises an arm to gesture at one of the geisha next to her. “I highly recommend Furihata-san—”

“—No,” Akashi interrupts immediately, and Aida wisely lets her arm fall back down to her lap without another word. The heir spins on his heel, black pinstripe jacket flaring behind him, and meets Aida’s chocolate brown with his commanding crimson. “I shall take Kise Ryouta as my partner tonight.”

* * *

_Geisha do not sell sex._

That was the first of many lessons Tetsuya learned as he trained. Among the many shamisen sessions, calligraphy lessons, dance lessons, _walking_ lessons—that was the one phrase that they repeated most above all else. They taught him that while he would look the part of a blushing virgin, play the part of the skilled housewife, and act the part of a long lost lover, he was never there to fulfill their bedroom desires. He was there as an ethereal beauty, a _look but don’t touch_ museum display, and a fantasy out of reach of the common man. Let them leer, they said, but do not let them act.

_Geisha sell perfection._

And as Tetsuya looks at the two men across the room, he is extremely aware of what perfection geisha sell. Ryouta shines even brighter than usual as he serves Akashi, his smiles almost genuine as he leans over to pour more sake into Akashi’s cup. The few moments that Ryouta is allowed to get up and entertain are few, but each of his performances are stunning beyond belief; Tetsuya had thought he perhaps could catch up to Ryouta one day, but all semblance of that thought completely vanishes as Ryouta moves.

Ryouta dances unlike anything Tetsuya has ever seen, because he is not fluid water and blooming flowers like Tetsuya thought him to be, but a blazing wildfire that burns across the eyes of every spectator in the dining hall. Even when he stops, his moves smoulder, and there are embers that spark in the ashes of his wake. Tetsuya realizes then, as Ryouta unfolds his fan with a snap and brings it across his chest, that Ryouta could never have been the sun. Ryouta is the Earth, teeming with life, bringing curiosity upon the galaxy with thousands of beating hearts, and Tetsuya cannot comprehend him anymore.

 _Akashi_ is the Sun. The young heir observes and shines approval on Ryouta’s steps, and everyone around him is pulled to his orbit; his regality and command are the gravity that everyone falls in line with. Even Tetsuya, who resists with all the force he can muster, cannot help but stray his eyes to watch the crimson emperor as he sits, perfectly postured.

 _He commands too much_.

Where Ryouta is a blazing phoenix, Akashi is a raging dragon, and Tetsuya understands that they are both no longer a common man (i _f they ever were_ ).

As he stews in his thoughts of the two forces in front of him, Ryouta makes his way over and gently nudges Tetsuya out of his thoughts.

“Kurokocchi,” Ryouta says happily, and takes Tetsuya’s hands in his as soon as he sits down. “Kurokocchi, let’s dance together.”

“Together?” Tetsuya blinks and stares confusedly at the blond in front of him. “You need to dance for your client, Ryouta.”

“But this is the only time when we’re together with a client,” Ryouta replies and starts impatiently tugging at Tetsuya’s hands. “And I want to dance with Kurokocchi. Even if Akashicchi says otherwise—he hasn’t seen you dance yet.”

“If Akashi-sama says otherwise, I really shouldn’t—”

“Come on,” Ryouta pulls him on his feet, and Tetsuya ungracefully skitters for a moment as he tries to regain his balance with the sudden shift in position. Ryouta moves his hands to Tetsuya’s face and then his hair, and repositions the flower there as compromise. As a maiko walks by with more sake, Ryouta quickly leans down to steal a kiss. “You’re beautiful, Kurokocchi, and I want everyone to see that.”

Tetsuya flushes a pale red despite his stoic expression, and Ryouta laughs as he pulls him to the center of the stage. “You shouldn’t do that in public, Ryouta,” he says.

“It was quick and it was hidden,” Ryouta responds with a grin. “I really can’t keep my hands off of you, Kurokocchi~”

“Then you should just not come near me at all.”

“So mean!”

They quiet as other geisha get in place behind them, shamisen and tsuzumi drums at the ready, and Tetsuya and Ryouta take their positions across from each other. It is a dance that Tetsuya knows all too well, because this is his _debut dance_ , the very one he performed with Ryouta on the day of his graduation from maiko to geisha. But the additional pair of judging empyrean eyes makes him almost falter before the dance even starts.

Tetsuya inhales slowly and closes his eyes as the music begins. He drowns out all sound except the rhythm of the instruments behind him, and Ryouta across from him, and they both don’t move until well into the song. But all at once, they extend their hands towards the ceiling, and move to the beat of the drums.

Ryouta quells his fire and becomes a blooming spring lotus, while Tetsuya moves along like the water underneath. That is their dance. Despite Ryouta’s attempts to shift their position, Tetsuya holds firmly onto his supporting role—he is a shadow, and he works best as a shadow. Ryouta is too bright of a light for him to ever compete with, but there is no jealousy in that revelation. Tetsuya is, instead, relieved. He does not want to compete with Ryouta, because he is perfectly content supporting him.

He utilizes his low presence and almost fades into the background, only appearing to amplify Ryouta’s movements as they dance. Where Ryouta’s sleeves billow in the nonexistent wind, Tetsuya is the wisp of smoke that blows with him, only further increasing Ryouta’s ethereal beauty. They are the running water and the newborn lotus, where Tetsuya guides Ryouta’s petals as they bloom on their journey down the river.

As the song fades away, Tetsuya stands face to face with Ryouta and is fully prepared to turn away as the finishing pose, when Ryouta takes his hands and pulls them forward in an ending flourish just like his. _A water spirit that welcomes the lotus_. Tetsuya quickly hides his shocked expression when he remembers that he is in front of guests, and only holds that pose for as long as the applause lasts. When the surrounding customers begin to go back to their sake, Tetsuya heaves a sigh of relief and fixes Ryouta with a soft glare.

“ _Kise-kun_ ,” he says once. Ryouta only smiles sheepishly and moves off the stage in a hurried rush of grace and silk. Tetsuya has half a mind to follow, but he only bows once more to the guests as a courtesy, and steps off the stage in the opposite direction Ryouta did. It would be a while before Tetsuya could catch the blond alone again. “Honestly, Ryouta...”

“—Kurokocchi-kun, I presume?”

“Please don’t add -cchi and -kun to my name at the same time,” Tetsuya replies automatically before he realizes who he is talking to. With a sharp intake of air and a perfect bow, he tilts his head forward and immediately apologizes. “I’m sorry for being rude. Please excuse me.”

Akashi’s chuckle is a smooth velvet that sends shivers down his spine as the red haired heir gestures for him to stand upright. Tetsuya obeys as soon as he is given permission to, and is surprised to find that Akashi is not that much taller than him. While his intimidating aura does not so much as _flicker_ with this revelation, Tetsuya finds himself able to relax more easily when he is not craning his neck to meet his gaze.

“Then perhaps you can tell me your name,” Akashi says with a refined tilt of his chin. He looks all too much like a predator with a new prey, and Tetsuya is fairly certain he should run.

 _Geisha do not run_.

“I am named Kuroko,” he replies softly like he was taught. Always humble, never commanding—let the customer be the one who directs.

“Just Kuroko?” Akashi raises an eyebrow.

“I…” Tetsuya fixes his gaze on the walls behind Akashi and contemplates giving his first name. As a geisha, his client should not know more than his stage name, because the beauty of his ethereality would fade if he disclosed it. It would make him more real. But the man in front him—the man named _Akashi Seijuurou_ —is far too aware of his position. His crimson eyes bear holes in Tetsuya’s powder blue, and commands him to answer with looks alone. Faltering just slightly, the geisha inhales once more and meets Akashi’s gaze. “Yes, just Kuroko.”

Tetsuya isn’t sure if his eyes are failing him, but something sparks in Akashi’s eyes, and he is certain it isn’t anger.

“Well then, _Kuroko_ ,” Akashi emphasizes with a dazzling smile that conveys too many things at once, all of them not fit for present company. “Join me.”

Tetsuya frowns. “Isn’t your partner Kise-kun—?”

“Are you going against me?” Akashi asks with a tone of delicate lightness, but Tetsuya can feel the sharp fire behind his words.

“No,” he holds his tongue and bows once again. “I’m sorry. Please let me fetch more sake for you.”

“There’s no need,” Akashi reaches out and _touches him—grabs his wrist—_ preventing Tetsuya’s escape. Akashi smiles again, and Tetsuya finally understands what the spark in his eye is. “ _I insist._ ”

“Of course,” he answers automatically, and Akashi lets go. Tetsuya brings his wrist back to his chest and discreetly rubs the area where Akashi touched him, and the electric shock of their contact still burns in Tetsuya’s mind.

Akashi smiles again, eyes glinting with mirth like a child with a new toy. “Come.”

 _Geisha do not run_.

And by some unknown force, Tetsuya does.

 _Geisha walk_.


	3. And Everything In-Between

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> haha okay so i actually had this whole chapter written out since i posted the last one but just did not upload it because i kept finding fault with it (and also college apps were due and i cried a lot) but aaaa i got accepted into umbc!! that's not my dream college but it's also a really selective one so i'm glad. i might not be going to my dream college even if i do get accepted
> 
> uh anyway this is just rambling and i'm so sorry for how long this took!!  
> if you follow me on tumblr and have ever read my fics on there you know that i have a penchant for writing sad things
> 
> ~*~*~* MERRY CHRISTMAS *~*~*~

“Kuroko,” Akashi’s voice stops him as he moves to leave, and Tetsuya cranes his neck back to stare at the heir across from him.

“Is there anything else you need?” he asks politely, taking his hands off the shoji doors. The room is silent with the two of them, dimly lit by candles that surround the four corners of the room. The rest of the house, Tetsuya thinks, must already be asleep by now.

“Yes,” Akashi replies without hesitation, and fixes his crimson eyes on Tetsuya’s figure, pinning him to the spot. “You.”

“My hours are over,” Tetsuya responds immediately. “The banquet is over. This is overtime.”

“Your hours were over the moment you escorted me to this room,” Akashi says with a slight hint of amusement. “And yet you came in with me.”

“At your insistence,” Tetsuya defends, all semblance of geishian politeness gone. The night grows weary on him, and he knows he shouldn’t be taking it out on Akashi, but Ryouta is waiting for him, he’s sure.

(Or else still avoiding his wrath, he thinks wryly.)

“Well then, I continue to insist,” Akashi says as he leans his cheek on his knuckles and smiles knowingly at Tetsuya. He holds out his hand, palm open in invitation. “Kuroko.”

Tetsuya still cannot pinpoint why he follows so obediently at Akashi’s order. The heir commands authority, yes, but surely he could disobey that authority. He has the power to, he’s sure. It just wouldn’t be beneficial to him. But that’s never stopped him before.

(He refuses to think that perhaps he stays because he _wants_ to, because Akashi is such a cold enigma that is so different from Ryouta’s warm welcomes that Tetsuya is intrigued. It’s so stupid, and selfish, and _incoherent_ that Tetsuya doesn’t want to think down that line. All of his customers and clients are mysterious, because he doesn’t know the reason behind their visit or their reason for choosing him. He’s never questioned it.

Until now.)

Tetsuya shuffles over in small steps and sits knee-to-knee with Akashi, soft furisode touching hard slacks, and places a hand in Akashi’s open palm. Akashi closes his hand around Tetsuya’s, and gently runs his thumb over the geisha’s knuckles as they sit there in silence for a while. The faintness of his touches leave fire on his skin, and he’s sure he will not forget the other’s touch for a while, because Akashi caresses his knuckles like one would to a lost lover, and Tetsuya isn’t sure if this is _really_ all Akashi wanted, but those red eyes _dare_ him to move, and he concludes that it isn’t.

“Tell me, Kuroko,” Akashi begins with a lilt to his voice that sends Tetsuya reeling at its smoothness. “Why are you here?”

“Because I am a geisha,” Tetsuya isn’t stupid enough to miss the subtle _at this house_ after Akashi’s words, but he pretends he is.

“I don’t appreciate my question being brushed off,” Akashi’s hand tightens around his own, and it takes all of Tetsuya’s self control to not snatch it back. There’s a flash of _something_ in the heir’s eyes— _gold?_ —but it’s gone as soon as it came, and Tetsuya passes it off as a trick of the light.

He can’t help the shiver that travels up his spine.

“Because I need work,” he amends to a half-truth, and that alone seems to satisfy Akashi enough that the grip on his hand loosens. “Akashi-sama.”

“Yes?”

“Why are you here?” _With me?_

“Ryouta speaks highly of you,” that isn’t the reason. “He’s enamored with you.”

“Kise-kun is easily enamored,” he deflects expertly and narrows his eyes. “It’s nothing much.”

“I don’t disagree,” still, Akashi lets go of his hand. He stands up to make his way over to the futon on the far side, and sits down on the slightly raised platform to lock eyes with Tetsuya once again. “So tell me the name of the maiko who carted around sake.”

“The maiko?” Tetsuya asks in confusion. “I don’t remember a maiko during the banquet.”

“Are you sure?” Akashi increasingly looks like the cat who caught the canary. He practically bristles in excitement. “She walked past you earlier.”

Tetsuya frowns and tries to remember the presence of a maiko at the banquet. As far as he knew, the _okaa-san_ forbade any of the maikos from attending due to their inexperience. If there were any, they’d probably be outside, handing the workers inside any materials they needed so that they didn’t have to leave the hall. Perhaps he meant the maiko near the door—

_—when Ryouta leaned in to kiss him._

Tetsuya freezes, and his jaw goes slack. Had Akashi—

“She was quite beautiful,” Akashi goes on despite Tetsuya’s inner turmoil. “Although struggling with her load of alcohol. Are you sure you don’t know her name?”

Quickly, he moves to open his mouth to answer anything, god _anything_ , before Akashi catches on, but all he can muster is a “N-No… I’m sorry. I don’t... “

Akashi fixes him with a cold smile. “Then, good night, Kuroko,”

Tetsuya rises from his position on the floor and bows once, before stepping out of the room.

_He knows._

* * *

“What do you think of the proposition?”

“It’s a trap, of course,”

Akashi turns an approving glance at Tetsuya, and takes another sip from his tea cup.

Winter has taken over the quiet garden outside, and the stream that runs through the house has frozen over. The rocks that lead a trail from the porch to the plants are buried beneath white, and snow overtakes every inch of the outside. Despite how much frost there is on the ground already, the heavens still pour more flakes onto the earth.

Akashi has stayed for a week.

“How so?”

“There’s too many benefits for you, but none for them,” Tetsuya answers easily and reaches over to pour more tea into Akashi’s cup when he puts it down. Their lunch consists of two bowls of miso, two bowls of rice, a large grilled mackerel shared between them, and kansai eggs.

“Would it not be because they are backed in a corner and are forced to take my ultimatum?” Akashi rebutes with a raised eyebrow. He extends his arm and reaches down to cut the egg in half, wordlessly leaving the other half for Tetsuya, and wordlessly demanding that he eat it.

“That factors into it,” Tetsuya says as he takes the egg off the plate and puts it atop his bowl of rice, although he makes no move to eat it. “But a cornered animal is very desperate to flee.”

“How pitiful,” Akashi comments off-handedly, and takes a moment to chew. He swallows, and gently sets his chopsticks down. “Are you speaking from experience?”

“Yes,” Tetsuya answers immediately. “Because I am here right now.”

“Relentless as always,” Akashi smiles and draws his knee to his chest, an action that Tetsuya is sure he only does in front of him. “I’ve hardly cornered you.”

“I like to think otherwise,” Tetsuya says as he holds up the piece of egg that Akashi cut in front of him with his chopsticks, as if the egg justified his point. “I have a small appetite, Akashi-kun.”

“Your appetite has nothing to do with the fact that you don’t eat enough,” the heir dismisses with an unamused stare. “So eat.”

“This food was meant for Akashi-sama in the first place,”

“Are you changing back to _-sama_ to distance yourself again?”

“Of course not,”

“I don’t appreciate lies,”

“Then why are you requesting my company?” Tetsuya snaps.

Akashi’s glare turns gold—a sight that he’s seen far too many times the past week, and a sign that he’s gone too far. Tetsuya shivers again at the intensity of the male across from him, and weakly bows his head in apology. Every meeting with Akashi always ends like this, and Tetsuya faults himself for losing his composure so easily in front of the heir. It’s as if the other’s gaze could find all the cracks and faults in him, and expose them for the world to see, and all of a sudden all his geisha training has naught but disappeared.

“Tetsuya,” Akashi starts, but Tetsuya quickly places his bowl back on the tray and moves to carry it out.

“I know,” he says stiffly as he leans over to grip the sides of the tray, his head bowed. “I’m sorry for my rudeness. Please excuse my humble self. I will call in another geisha to entertain you.”

“Tetsuya,” Akashi interrupts with a piercing tone. “Stay.”

His grip on the tray loosens, but he does not make a move to sit back down again.

“Tetsuya,” Akashi says again, this time softer, and the geisha looks up in confusion. The gold glare he had seen only moments before is gone, replaced by crimson red again. “Do you know why I request your company?”

Mute, he shakes his head.

“It would be so easy,” he begins, moving his eyes from Tetsuya to look at the falling snow outside. “If I just told Riko about you and Ryouta. Geisha are not allowed to fall in love.”

“Then why—?” Tetsuya asks hesitantly, knowing too well he could be digging his own grave.

“I wanted to see you squirm,” Akashi replies easily, and Tetsuya stiffens. The air suddenly becomes all too heavy. Tetsuya moves to respond, and Akashi gestures for him to come closer, but the geisha holds his place.

“Past tense?”

“Tetsuya,” Akashi says with more force, and Tetsuya wordlessly puts the tray down to shuffle closer as was requested. Akashi suddenly grabs his arm and pulls him closer until he is straddling the heir’s lap, and Akashi hooks an arm around his waist.

“Akashi-sama—”

“You are a doll,” Akashi proceeds despite Tetsuya’s protests, but they soon die down when the geisha realizes that he can’t escape, and that he is only wasting energy by trying. Akashi’s grip on his waist doesn’t loosen. “I wondered if a doll could squirm.”

Tetsuya is practically sprawled on Akashi’s lap, his snow blue kimono fanned out around them, his hands gripping Akashi’s shoulders as both a safety measure and a warning, and his eyes frantically searching the heir’s for sign of— _something_ , like a joke, _anything_ that lets Tetsuya hold back on to reality, but Akashi has none of those.

At close proximity, where he can even see the pores on Akashi’s flesh, the man in front of him suddenly becomes more ethereal than he could ever hope to be. But that crimson hair and those crimson eyes are dangerous. Ethereal, but dangerous.

_Akashi is dangerous._

“Dolls are strong,” Tetsuya replies with an even tone, although his breathing says otherwise.

“Are they?” Akashi chuckles as he tugs the geisha closer until they are nose-to-nose. “Would you care to show me?”

“Akashi-sama,” Tetsuya warns, more for himself than the heir in front of him.

Akashi reaches out to tilt Tetsuya’s chin up with his free hand, until they see eye to eye as well. “Tetsuya.”

“... Perhaps,” he breathes, all too aware of the game they are playing. A game with all of the benefits for Akashi, and none for Tetsuya. A trap.

_A mistake._

“Humor me, Tetsuya,” and Akashi leans in to steal a kiss that Tetsuya is all too willing to give.

* * *

Ryouta buys his freedom soon after Akashi’s visit.

Tetsuya congratulates him and pretends he didn’t see the large tip Akashi left behind, pretends he didn’t dump all of it in Ryouta’s box, pretends that Akashi Seijuurou was just a very wealthy client that Ryouta entertained for the whole night and not _him_ , and pretends that he didn’t shuffle away from a warm body that wasn’t Ryouta in the morning—because oh god, oh god, _he made a mistake_.

 _Geisha don’t make mistakes_.

Ryouta doesn’t let go of him after his announcement to leave the house. He grabs Tetsuya’s kimono and sobs into his sleeves, muttering _forgive me, forgive me—I should be the one apologizing_ —and _god, Kurokocchi, please wait for me—you should let me go_ —and finally, _I’ll be back_.

( _Don’t come back._ )

But Tetsuya doesn’t say that. He just kneels and kisses Ryouta all over, wipes away his tears, touches foreheads like the night before didn’t happen, and whispers _it’s okay, it’s okay, go. Leave me. You are destined for so much more (than me)._ And Ryouta just cries harder, doesn’t let go of Tetsuya’s kimono for a solid hour—and when he finally does in his fit of tears and regret, he topples Tetsuya to the floor and kisses him with all the strength that he can muster, and Tetsuya can barely manage _futon_ before his obi is tossed to the other side of the room.

Ryouta’s lips graze every inch of his body, worshipping the space between his fingers and the softness of his thighs, trails the inside of his ear and bites the juncture between his shoulder and neck. His hands trail over Tetsuya’s flat stomach and small waist, brushing over pink buds that make Tetsuya shiver in want, and traces the curves of his body like a lover to a beloved long gone. And Tetsuya digs his nails into Ryouta’s arms, wrinkling the expensive tomesode he will probably never wear again, throws his head back in the pure ecstasy of it all, breathing _please, oh god, please._

They spend an immeasurable amount of time memorizing each other’s bodies. The faintness of Ryouta’s touches burn and smoulder, leave wakes of pleasure in its trail, except it’s not supposed to spark on his skin like—

_—Akashi’s hands are as velvet as his voice, brushing over the cracks and faults of his body with a searing touch that burned his wounds closed. The heir’s mouth trailed up and down his jaw, dipping into his neck, dipping into his mouth, dipping his tongue over Tetsuya’s lips that made them part on silent command. And then Akashi leaned over to claimed them for himself, tongue darting to meet Tetsuya’s, hands sliding to touch further, and Tetsuya bared himself all too eagerly._

_“Geisha… geisha don’t—_ haaah _—”_

_“What don’t geisha do?” Akashi asks, breath escaping to warm Tetsuya’s collarbone, and Tetsuya inhales sharply as Akashi bites down, hard enough to make him grasp for thin air, but soft enough to not leave a mark._

_“We—we don’t—” Tetsuya shoves his hands over his mouth as Akashi slides his hands over his thighs, cold hands on warm skin, parting snow blue furisode for snow white skin. His hand ghosts over the sensitive spot between his legs, sending shocks through Tetsuya’s body, and he throws his head back in a silent scream. “_ Aka— _aaaah_ —shi— _”_

_“Kuroko,” Akashi acknowledges with a smile, as if his fingers weren’t dipping into Tetsuya’s entrance, and Tetsuya wasn’t squirming in need under him._

_“Geisha don’t—don’t sell—” his hips buck as Akashi’s fingers curl inside him, and Tetsuya forgets what he was ever going to say, or do, and his mind goes blank. When Akashi tells him to spread his thighs more, he does so without a second thought, caught in the binds of his silken voice and teasing tones._

_“Shhhh,” Akashi leans over to murmur in his ear, and Tetsuya’s hips buck again as his fingers tease the one spot inside him. “Don’t think. Submit.”_

_“Aka—shi—”_

Tetsuya slams his hands over his mouth as Ryouta pushes into him, moaning into his fingers the name of a man who isn’t the one on top of him.

* * *

When Ryouta leaves the next day, suitcase full of nothing but things Tetsuya gave him, he is still a mess of tears that clings onto Tetsuya like a lifeline. His new manager, a man with sharp edges like Ryouta named _Kasamatsu Yukio_ , tries to pry him away with no success, and it is only after Tetsuya’s gentle caress that he finally detaches himself. The soon-to-be model hiccups, takes Tetsuya’s hands into his own, and promises once again that he’ll be back, crying _wait for me, Kurokocchi_ one last time.

(And Tetsuya wants to cry _no, no don’t come back, because I am soiled and dirty, and you are too bright to cling to a filthy shadow like me. Forget about me. Leave me as a distant memory._

But he doesn’t, and the guilt wrenches his heart apart, and Ryouta mistakes the tightening of his hold as a last plea to _not go_ instead of the crushing disgrace Tetsuya tries to carry. The blond kisses him again as Tetsuya sees him off, when his manager goes to start the car, and the other geiko of the house have gone back to their duties, and smiles at him a smile so bright it makes Tetsuya want to cry.)

He stands alone on the front steps of the geisha house as the black SUV drives off, kicking up a trail of dust in its wake. Ryouta leans out the window, flailing his arms as he leaves, shouting _Kurokocchi, Kurokocchi—_

Tetsuya later blames the dust for the tears in his eyes, and retreats back into the cage he so willing walked into.

* * *

“Kuro-chin,” Murasakibara says softly as he dabs a handkerchief over the other’s eyes and cheeks, wiping away tears that streak lines down his makeup. Tetsuya tries to push him away, wiping his own tears with his expensive furisode, but Murasakibara is stronger. He traps Tetsuya’s wrists and pull them away, and Tetsuya succumbs to his mothering as the giant continues to dry his face. “Kuro-chin…”

“I’m—I’m fine—” Tetsuya hiccups, but Murasakibara tilts his chin up to stare royal purple into powder blue, and he falters. “Murasakibara—”

“Kuro-chin,” he says again, and lets Tetsuya’s wrists drop to his lap. Tetsuya wrings his hands together, and Murasakibara can only watch as he wallows in self-pity. The giant leans forward and pats Tetsuya’s head, and for once Tetsuya does not get annoyed at the gesture. “It’s going to be alright.”

“No it’s not,” Tetsuya says through short breaths as he digs the heels of his palms into his eyes. He hiccups again. “It’s my fault. I should have stopped him. I should have stopped Akashi, but I _didn’t_.”

“No one can stop Aka-chin,” the giant murmurs in consolation. He runs his hands through Tetsuya’s hair, and fixes the loose strands as the geisha continues crying.

“I should have stopped Akashi,” he repeats to himself, muttering regrets under his breath as he breathes and breathes and _breathes_. “I should have stopped him.”

“Kuro-chin…”

“I didn’t stop him. I let him do it. I _wanted_ him to do, Murasakibara-kun, I—”

“Breathe, Kuro-chin,” Murasakibara pushes a finger against Tetsuya’s lips, and Tetsuya inhales and exhales on command. “No one can stop Aka-chin.”

“I can still _feel_ him,” he goes on despite the giant’s reassurance. “When Ryouta touched me, all I could think about was Akashi, and Akashi, and _Akashi_.”

“But you regret it, Kuro-chin,” Murasakibara tries again. He cups the other’s face in his large hands and watches as Tetsuya continues to sniffle and hiccup. “Right?”

“I regret a lot of things,” Tetsuya’s voice goes quiet. “It doesn’t make them better. It’s never _been_ better. I used Ryouta, Mursakibara-kun. I used him from the start.”

He stops to take a gulp of air, and dissolves into mess of hiccups. Murasakibara only watches as the geisha continues to cry, and waits patiently for him to compose himself.

“I used him to forget about—about—”

“Mine-chin,” Murasakibara says softly. Tetsuya hiccups.

“And then I started to _love_ him,” Tetsuya continues with a breath. “And perhaps for a moment I was pulled into his fantasy too, of living in a house with him, going to work as a normal person, and coming back to a smiling Ryouta that I loved.”

“You still do,”

“I still do,” Tetsuya agrees quietly.

Murasakibara stands up to wash the handkerchief in the sink, and for a while the only sounds in the room are Tetsuya’s hiccups and the running water. Tetsuya inhales as his mind flashes back to the night of Akashi’s visit, how Ryouta had turned still water into a water _spirit_ , how Ryouta had thrust him into the spotlight because he truly believed in Tetsuya’s ability, and how Akashi had seen and claimed him in that moment. He closes his eyes as he feels another rush of tears, and the giant is back to wipe them away again.

“Kuro-chin,” Murasakibara says again as he hands the smaller male a chocolate bar. Tetsuya shakes his head, but the giant unwraps the chocolate and shoves it into his hands. “Eat.”

“I’m not in the mood for snacks, Murasakibara-kun,”

“Chocolate makes me happy, so it’ll make Kuro-chin happy too,” he replies. “Eat.”

Tetsuya bites into the chocolate.

“Do you hate Aka-chin?” Murasakibara asks after a while, when a quarter of the chocolate bar has been devoured, and he figures that’s already a lot for someone like Tetsuya.

Tetsuya pulls the wrapper back over the chocolate, and places it on the counter next to him with a soft thump. Murasakibara reaches over to wipe away the crumbs near his mouth, and Tetsuya cannot find the strength to complain anymore. “... No.”

“But?”

“But I don’t _like_ him either,” he mumbles. When he thinks back again, he can still feel the sharpness of Akashi’s gaze, the tufts of his hair, and the burning of his touch. Tetsuya had fallen entranced by his eyes alone.

“Why?”

Crimson, like the blood on his lips when they kissed, and gold, like the brightness of Ryouta’s smiles. Crimson and gold. _His eyes were crimson and gold._

_Not red._

“Because if I do, I’m only going to hate myself more,” he answers as he leans back in his seat, and finally lets the weight of the world crash on him as he slouches from his perfect posture. Murasakibara watches as he tilts his head back, inhales deeply, and throws a hand over his eyes, soft blue furisode sleeves covering the rest of his face and exposed neck.

Murasakibara stands to put his chair back and leave Tetsuya alone, but just as he steps out, the hand shifts, and he hears Tetsuya mumble—

_“Even if I already do.”_

He doesn’t ask whether Tetsuya means Akashi or himself.

Or both.

* * *

The next month moves at a snail’s pace: stopping every now and then to survey its surroundings, but ultimately treks on after a few moments. Time waits for no one, after all. The new year comes and goes, and brings with it a two week rest, where the geisha house is closed because the geiko have families too, although Tetsuya does not leave the house. It becomes eerily quiet without the presence of the other workers, because as far as he knows, the only ones left behind in the festivities are him, Murasakibara, and the one other male geisha in the house.

Midorima Shintarou rarely leaves his room, and rarer still takes clients. Sometimes Tetsuya wonders if he even is a geisha at all, but the fleeting memory of a Midorima dressed in fine homespun silk, dark green like his hair, and weaved with images of tall bamboo forests comes to mind, and he doesn’t question it further. He has never seen the other outside, much less work, so it doesn’t come as a surprise that Midorima does not leave for the new year.

“It’s not because I want to stay here,” Midorima answers when he asks, pushing up his glasses with a firm tap. “It’s because I have no where else to go.”

Tetsuya cannot argue.

* * *

When Ryouta visits the day before the new year, Tetsuya cannot hide his shock. The flowers he holds in his hands drop from his grip, and the vase arrangement in front of him is ruined. He knows that by all means, he should have expected the visit. Ryouta would not have forgotten him as easily as he wished for him to, even if Tetsuya thinks otherwise. He only robotically gathers up the fallen flowers and lays them out beside him to start the arrangement again.

“Kurokocchi,” Ryouta sings as he excitedly rushes over, forgoing shoes haphazardly as he enters the room they used to share and embraces Tetsuya with all the force he can muster. “Kurokocchi, I’ve missed you so much.”

“Kise-kun,” Tetsuya greets formally, more out of guilt than out of habit. Kise only puckers his lips in a pout, and buries his face in Tetsuya’s neck.

“I was only gone for a month and we’re back to Kise-kun? How mean, Kurokocchi,” he whines lowly as he pulls Tetsuya into his lap. Sneakily, he feathers kisses up and down Tetsuya’s neck, and Tetsuya gasps in surprise, trying in vain to push him away.

“Ki-Kise-kun,” he breathes at the familiar feeling as the blood rushes to his cheeks. “Th-This isn’t appropriate.”

“Ry-ou-ta,” Kise says between kisses. “Or I won’t stop. Unless you _don’t want_ me to stop.”

“Ryouta,” Tetsuya says finally, and Ryouta pouts as he stops raining kisses on the other’s neck.

“Kurokocchi is no fun,”

“You’re sitting on my flowers,”

“Are they more important than me?”

“Yes,”

“Kurokocchiiii…!”

Tetsuya smiles wanly at his antics, but doesn’t move to disconnect the other from himself. In some back part of his mind, he doesn’t wish to dwell on what happened the week of Akashi’s visit, but he knows that won’t happen. The guilt weighing on his shoulders won’t let him forget, but no matter how much Tetsuya wants to cry out that Ryouta should go, go, _go_ , he doesn’t. Instead, he just leans forward to bury his face in the junction of the other’s collarbone, and they sit in silence.

“Ryouta,” he breathes after a while, and the only acknowledgement he gets is the soft hum of Ryouta’s throat as it tingles against his forehead. Tetsuya sighs and squeezes his eyes shut, pale hands gripping the suit that Ryouta wears a little tighter, far too different from the loose tomesode he had grown used to. “Ryouta.”

“Tetsuya,” Ryouta murmurs into his hair, face buried in Tetsuya’s blue locks, arms wrapped tightly around the small frame in his lap. The use of his name brings Tetsuya’s walls down, and he only further pushes himself against the blond. “I really missed you.”

“I know,” he repeats automatically. Tetsuya opens his eyes again, and inhales slowly. “Ryouta, we need to talk.”

The fated words sends Ryouta shock still, and Tetsuya uses the opportunity to push away from the other to lock eyes with him. His composure is stoic, his face even more so, but inside he is a jumbled mess of emotions.

“Kurokocchi, tell me what I’ve done wrong,” Ryouta is upon him in a flash, panicked eyes roving every inch of Tetsuya’s face as he brings his hands up to stroke his cheeks. Tetsuya’s gut clenches again as Ryouta presses closer to him, desperate to not let him go. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”

“Please don’t apologize,” Tetsuya says as he looks away. His body hurts. His very being hurts. And he knows Ryouta hurts too, even if he shouldn’t. Because the weight of his decisions should be a burden for him only. “It’s not you. It was never you. I could never—” _inhale, Tetsuya_ “—blame you. It’s me. It’s my fault.”

“Tetsuya—?”

“I,” his words constrict in his throat, and it takes a few long moments for him to compose himself well enough to go on. “That night of Akashi’s visit, when you avoided me after the dance, I entertained Akashi in your place.”

“I didn’t mean to, Kurokocchi, I—”

“—No, it’s not that,” Tetsuya interrupts immediately. He inhales, exhales, and pushes forward. “You never did anything wrong, I—I did. I poured Akashi sake, and sang for him, and then when the banquet was over I escorted him to his room.”

“I spent a week with him,” Tetsuya presses on. “Just lunch and dinner, we’d just talk. That’s not important, though, it’s—”

“Tetsuya,” Ryouta reaches out to wrap his arms around him, but Tetsuya pushes him away, trying to get as much distance between them as possible.

“We had sex,” Tetsuya chokes out and buries his face in his hands, refusing to look at Ryouta. The room enters a steady silence, only broken by Tetsuya’s hiccups as he cries into his sleeves. “I didn’t stop him. I _reciprocated_ him. You didn’t do anything wrong. I did. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, _I’m so sorry, I love you_ —”

And as Tetsuya breaks down again, Ryouta does not move to comfort him.


End file.
